


Bloodplay

by M J Holyoke (wholeyolk)



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon-Typical Ludicrousness, Cunnilingus, F/F, Femslash After Dark 2018, Menstrual Sex, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Season/Series 01, Vaginal Fisting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-06-09 14:06:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15269088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholeyolk/pseuds/M%20J%20Holyoke
Summary: Eve is in her childhood bed, feigning illness, feeling sorry for herself, and trying to hide from the world—or trying to hide from one person in particular, rather. Guess who finds her there anyway?





	Bloodplay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FreshBrains](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/gifts).



“Eve, I’m going to the store. Is there anything you need? You want to come with me?”

“No!”

“Oh, c’mon, Eve, you’re not a child anymore! Don’t be such a baby! It’s time to face the world! You haven’t been out of bed all day!”

“No! Leave me alone!”

“We’ll get lunch, too. How’s Panera sound? C’mon, Sweetheart, it’ll be nice. I’ll pay; don’t worry. It’ll get you out of the house.”

“I said _no_ , Mom! I don’t feel good, anyway! Go! Away!!”

Eve rolled over onto her stomach with a resentful huff of breath and readjusted the covers so that they were covering her head—and specifically her ears. She didn’t want to hear it. Especially not today.

Unfortunately, the walls of her childhood home were thin, so she could still detect her mother’s sigh of exasperation from the bottom of the stairs. For a moment, Eve even thought that she might come storming upstairs to try to remove Eve from the bed by force.

Eve tensed with anticipation … but then she heard a second—longer and louder—sigh of exasperation and the receding clomp of footsteps and the jangle of car keys. Another minute passed before the back door slammed shut with foundation-rattling finality and the four-door Toyota Corolla crunched its way out of the gravel driveway.

Safe at last. Excellent. Eve released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

There was Before Villanelle, and there was After Villanelle. That murderous, psychopathic bitch marked a major turning point in Eve’s life. Before Villanelle, life had been boring. Ordinary. After Villanelle? Whole different story. And now, sacked from two British government jobs within the space of two weeks, separated from her husband Nico, and generally feeling gloomy not just about Life but also the Universe and Everything, Eve had returned to her childhood home in suburban Connecticut.

Where she was currently wallowing in self-pity and pretending to be involuntarily bedridden with severe menstrual cramps (when everybody knew damn well that two Aleve tablets—All Day Strong, All Day Long!—were a thing … and much easier and cheaper to get in the good ol’ US of A than in the UK). But now that her mother wasn’t in the house to pester her anymore, she figured she’d have a few hours at least of perfect peace and quiet. With another huff of breath—relieved this time—she rolled back over onto her back, lowered the covers that had been covering her head down below her chin—

Eve’s eyes widened; it was as if time had frozen solid.

Then, she started bucking and writhing and shaking her head back and forth and screaming bloody murder. The last time they were in bed together, Eve had shoved a knife into her gut, and she’d returned the favor with a spray of gunfire—!

“No. No! Stop screaming,” said Villanelle, who, like some latter-day succubus nightmare, was completely naked, straddling Eve’s hips, pinning her, and covering her mouth with one (elegant, shapely) hand. “I’m not here to hurt you!”

They’d been in a similar position before in Eve’s London flat, and Villanelle had just wanted to talk and eat dinner together. She hadn’t been particularly violent. Eve forced herself into some semblance of calm.

“There. That’s better,” said Villanelle.

“My Mom?” The question was muffled by Villanelle’s hand over Eve’s mouth, but she got the gist.

“Drove off in the car approximately seven minutes ago.”

Her mother was safe. Thank goodness. Well, at least that was something.

“Why are you here, Oksana?” Villanelle’s hand had moved to tangle itself in Eve’s hair, so this question was clearly enunciated.

“Call me Villanelle, Sweetheart.” Ugh, she said ‘Sweetheart’ exactly like Eve’s mother did.

“If you agree to call me Eve … _Villanelle_ ,” said Eve, glaring the knives she didn’t actually have conveniently nearby.

“… Okay!”

“Okay!”

They continued glaring at each other for a good fifteen seconds.

“Why are you here, Villanelle?” asked Eve again. That basic question seemed to have gotten lost in the proverbial argument shuffle.

“I think about you when I masturbate, but the orgasms haven’t been as good as they used to be. I decided I needed some new material,” replied Villanelle with an awkward, one-shouldered shrug …

… and then she ripped Eve’s old, oversized sleeping tee open straight from collar to hem. Eve involuntarily emitted a breathy, high-pitched sound that was something between a gasp and a shriek.

“Ooohhh, no bra and no underwear,” said Villanelle …

… and then she began kissing, sucking, and licking a wet and tantalizing line that started at Eve’s throat (Eve gulped convulsively), down between the swell of breasts (with brief detours to nibble both nipples into pebbly peaks with her sharp white teeth), past the sternum, and the navel, and the coarse, dark nest of pubic hair …

… and landing definitively on the already protruding, pulsing button of Eve’s clitoris. She suckled on it _hard_ , like a baby animal on a teat, and Eve, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, was coming equally hard. Zero to orgasm had taken less than a minute. Damn, that was nice.

“Nice,” said Villanelle, echoing Eve’s thoughts. “You’re so responsive. Do you like being fingered, too?”

Even as she asked the question, her fingers had strayed lower and were probing the sensitive entrance to Eve’s vagina.

“W-wait—!” protested Eve. “I’ve got—”

Too late. Villanelle was already yanking the silicone menstrual cup out. It pulled free with a moist _pop!_ Old blood, with a stench like sulfur and rot, spilled out onto the sheets; it had been nearly full. Villanelle regarded what remained in the cup with a psychopath’s detached, clinical curiosity for a moment before tossing it heedlessly over her shoulder and off the edge of the bed.

“H-hey—!” protested Eve. The newly installed bedroom carpet had just been ruined.

Villanelle didn’t wait for an answer to her previous question. Instead, and without ceremony, she rammed three fingers into Eve. “Mmm, nice,” she remarked above the obscene squelching sounds. “Can you take more?”

Eve whimpered, wordless, incoherent. Villanelle knew her way around a woman’s body, unsurprisingly. Eve’s limbs were tense and flung out straight, and her inner muscles were cramping—she was close to coming again … already. And now Villanelle’s remaining two fingers were already past the entrance to Eve’s vagina, and one of her fingernails was scraping the top of Eve’s cervix, and she was stretching and twisting, until finally her whole hand was inside Eve, deep, _deep_ inside, all the way to the pulse point of the wrist. Eve’s muscular inner walls clenched and released, clenched and released helplessly as she came a second time.

“Mmm, nice. Definitely nice,” murmured Villanelle as she rearranged her body so that she was on top of Eve again, chest to chest, their breasts crushed together. She smelled of her namesake fragrance, heady and intoxicating. Her hand was still down between Eve’s legs, inside Eve—oh God, oh God, oh God, _sooooo impossibly far inside!—_ but now Villanelle was shuddering and humping Eve’s thigh, fast and faster now, perfectly in sync with the motions of her hand, and Eve was pushing back against those motions, eager, welcoming, and Villanelle’s other hand was in Eve’s hair, her mouth descending on Eve’s … was this the first time they had kissed, really kissed? Their tongues parried and dueled, so sweet. Eve couldn’t quite remember …

Villanelle’s mouth was torn away from Eve’s as she came, hollering louder than a cowgirl at the rodeo. Watching Villanelle in such exquisite ecstasy was sufficient to catapult Eve over the precipice and into yet another annihilating orgasm.

They collapsed together in a jumbled heap like marionettes with their strings cut as the waves of shared pleasure ebbed. The sheets were stiff and sticky with menstrual blood and other female excretions, and Villanelle’s hand was coated crimson. She regarded it with the same clinical fascination she’d regarded the silicone cup she’d pulled from Eve earlier.

Then she balled that hand into a fist and punched Eve in the solar plexus.

Later, when Eve emerged from unconsciousness, slowly, in gradual, stepped increments, like a scuba diver rising from a cold, deep sea dive, three distinct facts managed to impress themselves upon her muddied consciousness:

One, Villanelle had fled.

Two, she should probably burn the bedsheets before her mother had a chance to see the mess they’d made of them.

And finally, three, her head was pounding. Painfully. It was. Absolutely. _Pounding_. Maybe it was time to get up, clean up, and take those two damn Aleve tablets after all.

 

* * *

_~ The End ~_

* * *


End file.
